Nightingale Blues
by MarisaHydrei
Summary: [Soulsilvershipping] "Show me what is worth it. If my way of living by my strengths isn't worth it – what is? Take me with you, just for a day, and then I can judge if your little mantra's worth my time."


"_Well I didn't know it would come to this,_

"_But that's what happens when you're on your own." _

– _**Lana Del Rey, Pawn Shop Blues**_

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><p>Saffron City is gargantuan. It's the mother of all Kanto cities, and every corner tells a story. Every step you take has been taken already by someone else. The extreme happens overnight, and yet it fails to surprise even the most fragile residents.<p>

A homeless girl is one of those things that fail to surprise them. Her chocolate hair matted and unwashed; her scalp greasy and unattractive; her nose powdered with dirt gathered from her journeys. And yet, as she sat on the stage with her guitar, singing of hardship and the cruel hand of life, she seemed not to mind. Her guitar case, sprinkled with coins, showed the rare generosity of passers-by. Those who were too drunk to care sometimes even tossed a note into the tatty leather container for her pride and joy.

Every individual has their problems, and the general mentality of these individuals is to not ask and keep walking. _'It could be worse.'_

But nevertheless, she sung with all the passion in her heart, and it kept her sane. She relished the warmth of the bar; it was infinitely warmer than the bitter city air. Lyra returned the favour to those who gave her shelter by telling her tales - letting her troubles discreetly float away inside the soft melodies she bestowed upon those who listened. Lyra felt a comfort knowing that her lyrics only meant their true meaning to her and her only.

She finished her song, uttering a soft thanks to those who were still drinking in the room before packing up her guitar, scooping the change she'd been blessed with into her fist and stuffing it into a torn leather purse containing scarce copper and silver coins - quietly leaving the building and braving the bitter night.

The murmur of cars and mindless conversation drowned her thoughts in nothingness, stopping the balls of her feet from hurting and her throat from itching so badly. The aching pain in her feet returned though, latching onto her soles like a jealous parasite as she saw a young girl trying on a pair of leather boots in a shop window. The girl was seemingly dissatisfied with the type of flower that was embroidered nicely up the calf as she flipped her blonde curls and blinked her dolled-up eyes in distaste. Lyra would never get used to that: how people don't realise their privileges at a young age. Before Lyra had ended up this way she was the same, and it angered her. Remembering her ignorance, she wished she'd been the golden daughter her parents wanted her to be.

She shook her head. It was in the all-too memorable past now.

Resting her back against the display window, Lyra let out a breath of relief. Her soles burned with the lift of pressure, and she removed her worn, brown leather shoes to massage her toes: a routine she had to undergo every time she stopped moving nowadays.

Neon lights blinked at her from above, and streetlamps placed a spotlight upon her resting spot casting an elongated shadow across the sidewalk where she sat. She found that people paid more attention if you were in this light – meaning more of a chance somebody with a shred of sympathy would toss a coin or two at her. Gazing over at the opposite sidewalk, she noticed an old man hunched in a sitting position clutching a cardboard sign saying "HELP." She felt a sting of hurt, watching as passers-by continued their conversations with mere glances towards the man - they looked straight through him as if he didn't exist. Feigning blissful ignorance was something city folk trained themselves to be capable of.

A car zoomed by, and Lyra braced herself for the inevitable rush of wind that was to follow it. It did, and she retreated as much as she could into her scarf and trench coat. God it was cold. She craved the warmth the flame of a lighter could give her - or even better: a cigarette. Sometimes strangers gave her a couple, or a shoddy lighter they forgot they had, and it keeps her warm for those minutes that she smokes. Her lungs were already damaged from coughing at cold air and catching various illnesses, and therefore smoking was something she was reluctant to do. But the warmth it gave her was addictive – and she clung to it for dear life while the flames were alight.

Faded, tired brown eyes closed as she hugged herself tightly, conserving every single ounce of warmth she could encapsulate within her raggedy clothing and was just about ready to try to sleep before the distinct, thick smell of cigarette smoke overwhelmed her senses and it was then she realised that it was originating beside her. Looking up, she saw a looming figure: a redheaded boy who looked only slightly older than her, exhaling smoke. He had stopped next to her, nonchalantly leaning against the concrete wall and propping a foot against it too. The tangerine light of the shoe shop glowed against his leather jacket. The jacket was torn in places, she noted, and that contrasted against the new black leather gloves he was wearing.

Lyra's gaze finally traveled to his face, and he was rugged; scrawny and twig-like but with fierceness in his eyes that she daren't mess with. The amber flame of his cigarette cast an upward glow, and Lyra immediately noticed her attention being drawn to his vivid hair – an oddity in Kanto. Most were brunette or very dark-haired, and yet this boy stood out with his liquid silver eyes and loud hair like it was nothing to be stared at.

There were only a few more seconds of staring before finally being yanked back into reality where it was cold and miserable. She shivered, feeling her insides twitch with chill, and placed her chin on her knees in desperation not to lose more body heat. This would be one of the nights where Lyra would lay awake shivering, enduring the bitterness and hoping for morning to come.

To him, the girl sitting by the window meant nothing, and he gazed at passing city folk, wondering if their pockets contained anything of use to him - another lighter, maybe – but for now he is content with the box of half-filled Marlboro Lights he had deftly stolen from a drunkard's hands. Not that the guy could react particularly well: just about managing to slur out a distressed 'fucker!' before falling flat on his ass. Amusing how those with such blatant preciousness about their belongings could get so intoxicated - _all the more reason to take them,_ he mused.

A collection of jittery noises to his right become too apparent to ignore, and whilst taking another drag of dense warmth, he inclined his head to the side. The girl he had stopped beside was shivering uncontrollably, and he quirked an eyebrow. He'd seen this all before with homeless women, but something about her desperate shivering tugged at a heartstring he wasn't aware that he had. She just looked so determined. Determined to make it through the night; determined to come out of this alive. He admired it in a way – though, purely since it reminded him of his own strengths.

"Do you want one?"

Lyra jolted, looking back to the boy and she gulped upon seeing a full cigarette between his gloved fingers, aimed at her. A hand retracted from her huddle of body warmth to take it, the icy cold air striking at her fingers immediately. Upon seizing it from him, she took a moment to stare up at him again: he had his own cigarette between slightly parted lips, his cheekbones sculpting his face and lending his eyes a hard, deep intensity.

Nodding up at him in thanks, she placed the cigarette in her mouth and searched her pockets for a lighter; of which she did not find, provoking a frustrated shaky sigh. He sat beside her, though not too close, and leaned his head relaxed against the glass display window behind them: one leg folded; the other bent to rest his unoccupied arm on.

"Could I borrow your lighter?"

Not bothering to turn his head, the ginger boy glanced at her upon hearing her small voice. Without a word, he turned to cup his hands around her cigarette, so the cold air was not to make this more difficult and flicked his lighter aflame, a thin wisp of smoke beginning to drift upwards from the cage of his cupped hands.

Lyra took this opportunity to look at him closer – the new flame melted the silver in his eyes, dancing and flickering in abandon as well as setting the strands of red hair that swung effortlessly in front of his right eye alight with vivid colour.

He, however, stared directly back. A hard expression of scrutiny moulded into his features. She was dainty-looking, he admitted, and her chestnut brown eyes were tranquil and tired, but he felt that she was much more than that beneath the skin. Tatty brown hair tickled her cheeks and mid forehead, and small dry lips held her source of warmth tightly for her. Propped against the window with her was a shabby guitar case and he then knew how she survived alone. At least she survived with a more legal method than his 'borrowing' habits, though that never really mattered. He had nothing to lose. Run-ins with the police would dent neither his confidence nor his intent on taking what he needed. Taking his hands away, he returned to his original sitting positon.

Lyra savoured the warmth of the unhealthy smoke; the poison that was keeping her from freezing. It occurred to her that those leather gloves of his were brand new. As if they were straight out of a display case, but perhaps he had encountered someone extremely generous. Hell, was he even living on the streets like her? He didn't make a shred of sense, but it intrigued her; pulled her in. She'd met many strange people in the past two years – some she'd even stayed with just to make things easier. She had met nobody as confusing as him upon first impression. The intriguing ones were always deceivers, she thought – she had been tricked during her days of being walked all over because her sympathy levels were too high – remembering this made her stomach twist unpleasantly. So many people she'd spent the night with; so many people that had taken advantage of her. It had been months since she'd even attempted to talk to another person in a situation akin to hers. Trust is not something you should give away easily – she had learned the hard way.

Returning her attention to the redheaded stranger, Lyra couldn't help but wonder if he was a thief or a lucky bastard. Deciding to break the silence, she nonchalantly rested her head onto the glass behind her, attention fully on him.

"Where'd you get those gloves? They're pretty nice."

The redhead beside her continued to stare absently at the sky, and as he talked, his lips hardly moved only to curl up into a proud smirk. "I took them from the store a few blocks away. And yes, they are pretty nice."

She frowned, "'Took?'" perhaps he really was a thief.

A hint of a chuckle and he inclined his head to her, removing his cigarette from his lips, "Yes, 'took.' They weren't using them."

He was a thief indeed. She'd met thieves before, but none who could steal a pair of designer leather gloves and get away with it. Lyra noticed the way his smirk was proud and fiendish – seemingly taking great pleasure in the memory of 'taking' these gloves. He was a daredevil, she deduced and, to her brain's disgust, strangely alluring. She was never one for acting without thinking situations like this, but the fact this boy didn't _care_ for legal boundaries if it meant his hands were warm bemused her and excited her in a way. Aside from that sounding totally ridiculous, he was actually _interesting - _sly; intelligent; meticulous perhaps. Such finesse with thievery that nobody was even chasing him for the gloves. She was falling again into this desire to travel with another but this time not because of measly sympathy – she wanted a rush. She wanted to test her strength. He was a test, and she was determined to pass.

"Lyra." She said, taking a satisfying drag of poison again. An icy few seconds passed between them: he was obviously deciding whether to say anything back. She tensed naturally in embarrassment, teeth gritted on her cigarette in anticipation for his answer.

He nodded finally, "Silver."

She decided that to be enough talking. He didn't seem like one to be talkative. Relaxing against the glass window again, she noticed her fingers that were holding the cigarette to her lips. Her thin bony fingers and wrists showed her lack of nourishment, and asking for things from strangers seemed pathetically desperate to her. However, it was being 'pathetic' or face death; she preferred the primary option. Strange how humans cling to life, she wondered as she took another long drag of her cigarette: the warmth settled in her mouth and sent pleasant shivers down her spine which heated her from head to toe.

Minutes passed, and Lyra turned her head to discover that Silver had left. Not that he had much reason to stay, but he was interesting and that was hard to come by whilst leading a lonely life. However, he had left a lighter for her. No cigarettes, though she presumed those too precious to give away, but Lyra felt a wash of relief as she now had an indefinite source of warmth for the night. A small part of her thought it would be nice to see him again, but in such a large city it could be impossible. Besides – thieves are deceivers.

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><p>It was a solemn morning, and so a melancholy song seemed fitting. Lyra almost whispered the lyrics, too lost in her own world to care if others could even hear. It seemed to set the scene of the city street – people seemed slow and tired, shadows against the flurry of light as the pale vanilla sky dried the colour from the concrete buildings and pavements around them. Hearing a small metallic clash at her feet, she opened her eyes to look at the two silver coins that had been anonymously dropped into her guitar case. Not much, but better than nothing.<p>

She finished her song, standing silent for a minute to think of what to sing next before a commotion not too far away caught her attention. A businessman in an expensive three piece suit was chasing after someone, yelling profanities at them.

"Get the hell back here!" he cried, but without reply and Lyra strained her eyes against the morning light to see whom he was chasing after. She thought back to Silver and his stolen gloves, but there was no way in hell such a coincidence could occur.

As if to contradict her words, she saw him. He was running through the crowd holding a box of new cigarettes and she could barely keep up with him. He was fast and so skinny he could fit through the tiniest gaps between people without shoving them. This was smart, she thought – he didn't cause more of a scene that way. The businessman was slow, and was carrying his own portly weight as well as a suitcase, and there was no way he could catch up with the scrawny redhead darting through the crowd.

She found a proud smile creep up on her dry lips; this is what the buffoon should get for overindulging so much in her eyes. Lyra enjoyed the fact that the homeless were typically smarter than those who were too comfortable with walking around in expensive suits and fancy hairstyles.

Realising she was standing alone with a guitar in suspense, she began again, a light tune to start. There was hidden laughter behind her voice and rare cheer rising to her throat, begging her to sing loudly and noticeably. It wasn't a dedication; it just seemed to fit. The surprise of seeing Silver again and noticing his expertise in outrunning fat men amused her so much her heart fluttered with joy. Lyra's song seemed to lift the morning mood – vanilla sky now casting a spotlight on the city scene; how a skinny homeless girl could hold more joy than those who were employed and financially stable was ironic and ridiculous in a way. Perhaps she was merely free from responsibility, and that was what ultimately shackled these people to misery. They couldn't do what they wanted, and yet she was so far gone in the society around her she didn't care what she did with herself. Freedom was nice, she thought, and she sung louder and with more fervour, making sure her current mood of happiness was bound to every word and chord.

She reeled in more passing change - someone even carelessly tossed a note to her rather than spare coins and her grin widened at the gesture: she could now eat today. She could eat, and who knew what the regulars at the bars would add today. Today was very positive; optimistic. For once, she would take it as it came. Who knew: perhaps she'd see him again and ask for another smoke. Perhaps he'd let her in on how to pickpocket, or share his secret on how to run quickly away from fat businessmen who were red with anger because their morning smoking habit had been snatched from their hands by someone more clever and needy. Of course, this was mere speculation and the solitary vibe he gave contradicted any thought of Silver approaching her of his own free will.

As the day passed Lyra saw no more of Silver, but as evening fell she picked up her small pile of earnings, brushing a stray few strands of russet hair behind her ear and stuffing the change into her pocket; her purse had split at the seam this morning and proved no more use than a bucket with a hole in the bottom. Feeling around in her jacket pocket, she touched the cold exterior of the lighter Silver had left her and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Such an effect he had on her just by being amusingly sneaky, but when you were lonely things like that tended to shift your mood.

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><p>Cold dawned on her like a frosty hug. Nightfall swept Saffron and kissed the buildings with incandescence as streetlamps blinked into life and neon spotlights shone over sidewalks like a set stage. It was the opposite of the dim morning: the tired businessmen would be happily chatting on phones to expectant loved ones instead of hanging their heads in begrudging manners for their work day ahead. But these were the lives of those who had something to live for. The thought of nothingness made her rare smile level out into a dim frown – this thought crossed her mind often: why was she struggling on like this? Once you fell into this hole you rarely got out of it, and in her case she was a spider trying to cling onto a wet brick wall. She only got so far before slipping down to the ground again. She used to hope for a miracle – perhaps someone like a talent scout would notice her singing and whisk her away to fame and fortune or something;<em> anything<em> other than this. But now after years of enduring the blistering cold and hunger pains which made her nauseous, seeing her fingers deteriorate from the healthy and plump size they used to be to bony twigs extending from her hands, she'd just given up. Lyra felt the cloud of negativity form in her chest, tugging at her heart and weighing it down into that dark void of angst she frequently dragged herself into. The dreams she once had were now figments of her imagination. No comfort she craved would come to aid her in life. She was by herself – only using the resources she gave herself and nobody else could take away the strength she'd gained through this.

A burst of determination pushed her to walk faster, fighting against the cold and entering the bar where she usually sang. The barmaid nodded to her with a smile, indicating that she wasn't unwelcome, and Lyra dragged a tiny chair from an unoccupied table to the small stage in the corner of the room. It was quiet – only the regulars seemed to be drinking there. Some even greeted her, though she was sure they were greeting her behind rather than her as a person. It was a small place, but that only made it warmer and more endearing. The people who drank there weren't the perfect citizens, but they listened to her sing. Sometimes, they'd even treat her to a beer if they were particularly intoxicated but unfortunately for Lyra this was rare.

Plucking a few strings, Lyra took a deep breath. The buzz of conversation around her aided with her focus, and made her feel more comfortable with performing. The song she began to sing was sultry in tone and was driven by the memories of passion she had tried to bury long ago. Hearing the entrance to the bar open and close as someone came in, she hoped that they were driven here by her singing. That is, if they could even hear it from outside. The thought was nice however, and fueled her enthused singing even more.

Lyra opened her eyes, gaze lidded and her voice becoming breathy and quiet – barely a whisper. She felt empowered – she felt beautiful. Singing was the only thing that made her feel this way. She'd felt these passions first-hand, but the memory of them was even stronger than the experience.

Her gaze lifted to the back of the room – eyes settling on an imaginary figure as she whispered, lips curving into a devilish feminine smile: "Lay me down tonight…in my linen and curls…tell me something like I'm your favourite girl…"

She carefully plucked the next few notes: making sure they were softer than her voice as she finished – a few applauded her, and Lyra's eyes opened to her default expression. She had exhibited her songs for tonight, and as she stood the door to the room closed. Whoever had entered during her song had promptly left – did they even buy anything? She hadn't brought in as many donations as per usual, but she uttered a thank you and stuffed the spare coins from her guitar case into her pocket in preparation to leave. Stepping down from the stage and nodding in thanks to the barmaid, Lyra left.

"You're a singer." A voice to her left said in monotone – Lyra started in surprise.

"Y-Yes." She stammered – embarrassed that her words faltered at such a small fright. Turning her head to scold the culprit, her heart leapt as she saw the familiar flashes of red hair belonging to the boy leaning against the brick wall. Again, a cigarette in his mouth and a half-lidded nonchalance to his eyes as the lighter in his hand flickered on and off at the will of his thumb.

"Strange way to survive," said Silver, blowing out smoke with a deep, long breath – the action made her heart flutter slightly. Something about his deep breaths and scrawniness excited her against her will. "Insecure; unreliable." he added.

Her lips twisted into an offended frown, all captivations knocked out of her by the blunt comment, "Excuse me?"

"Why beg when you can take?" Silver glanced at his gloves – she noted that they were dirtier than before – "Less effort than straining your throat to get coins thrown at you."

That stung. Why was he so bothered by the way she made her money? It's not like he should even give a shit in the first place, let alone criticise her survival method.

"I'm not a crook. I work for what I get." Lyra's back straightened in attempts to seem taller. He was a good head above her, but she didn't let that affect her argument.

Silver almost laughed, "'crooks' tend to get their way a little easier. Why go through so much trouble for something you can just snatch?"

Her brown eyes widened – she was at a loss for words: he was right. She was short and unnoticeable and could easily get away with tiny petty crimes like pickpocketing. But no, she'd worked so hard to be as stable as homelessness allowed her. A simple thief was not as strong as she who had suffered terribly through winters with no shoes and gone three days without eating before now. She felt like he was cheating – stealing was the easy way and she had avoided it like a pure do-gooder and he was not going to devalue that.

"I'm honest." She said, feeling that the two words were inadequate but her point still stood.

Silver's eyes were now on her, his head only turned slightly as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, putting out his cigarette with the heels of black leather boots; extinguishing the tiny amber light.

"So am I – and I'm telling you that those people in there aren't worth singing for."

"Why? They help me live my life!"

He smirked, looking up at the night's sky, "Because fat drunkards with spare change really help. Honestly, I'm telling you now – it's not worth it."

The sarcasm burned into Lyra – anger flashing in her eyes and her teeth gritting in frustration. A nagging in the back of her mind believed him and she hated it. It got under her skin – she really was just begging in the end; begging to people who wouldn't give her the time of day if they were sober. Her collected money was noticeably scarcer in the daytime with the thousands walking by her as opposed to intoxicated people who threw up in the bathrooms from drinking too much before clumsily waddling to the foot of her stage to throw a greasy bill in her guitar case. Were they even aware they were giving money to her?

"You have no idea. You just take! You never give back!" Lyra's stubborn ego wasn't even letting her think before speaking now – her voice rising and face flushing with frustration. Her nails dug into her palms yet Silver sighed and remained as docile as ever. She barely knew him, and yet he'd managed to boil her blood to the point of metaphorical evaporation. Though, she still had the nagging letting her know that he was annoyingly right.

"Who am I giving back to? Nobody gives me anything. Leeching from sympathy is only tugging at their guilt – not their good will."

Lyra shut her eyes, letting out a deep breath to calm herself, preparing to retort before a plot forming in her head. A few seconds of tense silence passed before she broke it,

"Then show me." She said,

"Show you what?" Silver's eyebrow quirked, head inclined to her as he began to light another cigarette.

"Show me what _is_ worth it. If my way of living by my strengths isn't worth it – what is? Take me with you, just for a day, and then I can judge if your little mantra's worth my time."

He smiled – amused, of course – and blew smoke before turning fully to her, "you're only shooting yourself in the foot. You'll see how much effort you're wasting for other people when you can just rely on yourself. But if this is what it takes to drill it into your stubborn little head, then fine," – he threw her a cigarette. She caught it barely between panicked fingers, stumbling slightly at the unexpected gesture before standing composed once more – "all I wanted was to be honest with you but you burst like a little firecracker."

His smooth voice was like nails on a chalkboard to her at present, though her inevitable stubbornness forced her to instinctively nod. There was no way she could change his mind on how much she was 'wasting' her efforts by singing. Parts of her wanted to be aggressive and shout 'hey, why do you even care?' and let the pent up frustration unleash itself, though that would ruin the whole challenge she had set him. The lengths she was willing to go to made Lyra proud of herself – who else could have the courage to do this? The strength she'd built up over the years was going to shine through his ways of thievery and deception. She was going to prove her efficiency to him, and he was going to recognise her strength.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! <strong>

**Did you love it? Did you hate it? Let me know so I can revise it and improve! **

**This is the first time I've written anything long for Pokémon in around three years, so I'm probably rusty on the characters. But whatever. **

**-Marisahydrei**


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